Kinners vs Sherlock
by Kinners
Summary: Oh yes, oh yes, oh very yes! The sequel none of you have been waiting for has finally arrived. Hot on the trail of the villain whom Loki claims has stolen the Tesseract, Kinners sallys forth to London to clear his name with the help of a consulting detective who doesn't like her very much. (predominantly Sherlock, only marked crossover because Loki)
1. I'm Good, Thanks

"John."

The first thing Watson saw when he hiked up the stairs to the flat was Sherlock and a teenaged girl. She was hugging him. Very tightly. And he was not the slightest bit pleased about it.

"Hiya Watson!" she chirped, smiling fit to burst. She had mysterious eyes, and judging by the lack of space between her and Sherlock, a death grip worthy of a bear trap.

"John," said Sherlock again, his voice deceptively calm. When she reasserted her grip on him, he took a sudden breath and shut his eyes for a moment, as if to cope with the shock.

"Was wondering when you'd show up," she continued with a slight shrug, as if it were perfectly normal for her to be hugging a sociopath who was on the brink of murder. "Sherlock texted you a whole five minutes ago. Where do you live, Cardiff?"

"Get her off me." commanded Sherlock. His words were short, truncated, as if it took all his will to focus on them.

"Sherlock," said John carefully in a low voice, holding eye contact with his best friend and stepping closer carefully as if trying to tame a wild animal. They were both watching him, now, and her gaze was now almost as intense as Sherlock's. "Just...stay calm. You may be overreacting a bit."

"She won't let go." Sherlock mumbled, so quick he almost didn't catch it. He furrowed his brows at the both of them. The whole situation was quite confusing to him, but obviously something had to be done. However comical it may be to a bystander, it could very well escalate into a life or death situation, knowing Sherlock.

"Um. Duh," she said sarcastically, as if it were the most idiotic idea in the universe to terminate a perfectly good hug. "You're _Sherlock Holmes_. You're one of the highest placers on the list of people that most desperately need hugs and never seem to get them, somewhere between Loki and Erik. Which means I'm not letting go until you've had the longest, most amazing hug of your life. John, you're next."

"I'm good, thanks," responded John a little too quickly, subconsciously taking a step back from her. She apparently took no notice.

" _Get her off._ " Sherlock repeated.

"Ah, yes," murmured John to himself, his eyes going over the two of them and earnestly searching for any weakness in her hold. "Any chance we could, maybe...pull her off?"

"Not a chance," blurted Sherlock, half-sighing as if it were taxing on his patience to tolerate the sluggishness of other human beings. "unless you happen to have a crowbar or an adorable animal. She's quite musical, constantly has a song stuck in her head, always humming or tapping a rhythm. She walks to the beat with her left foot coming down on beats one and three, even going so far as to correct herself when she finds she is marching on the wrong foot. Marching? Yes. Obviously she has spent years in a regimental band, which means she is accustomed to holding her instrument up for long periods of time. She's a low brass player, baritone possibly, judging by the full lips and proud nature. She plays one of the heaviest instruments on the field, the endurance in her arms is adamant. She's not letting go. And before you even open your mouth, I already tried asking nicely. Her answer?"

"Nope!" piped up the girl. Sherlock glared into his eyebrows, his self-control waning quickly.

"You have made your position _quite_ clear," he growled. Yes, growled. If she didn't let go, John feared that his skills as a doctor would be readily needed.

"So...miss," began John, unsure of what to call her seeing as no introductions had been swapped. "would you mind...letting go?"

"I just said that I asked her that before," stated Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"I'm Kinners, by the way," she introduced with another smile, as if neither man had said anything. "Sounded like you were unsure of what to call me, seeing as no introductions have been swapped until this point. I already know who you two are. If I didn't, I would've let go of Sherlock by now. By the way, can I call you Sherry? Mycroft lets me call him Mikey...well, not really, but I call him that anyway because I think he secretly likes it."

" _Mycroft?_ " echoed John. She even knew Sherlock's brother? This girl, and this encounter, was getting stranger by the minute.

"The gun." said Sherlock stoically. Kinners furrowed her brows, as if the word 'gun' was foreign to her.

"What good would that do?" she asked no one in particular. John began to wonder if she wasn't delusional. "What, are you itchy again? Scratching the back of your head with a gun isn't entirely safe, Sherlock. Although, I guess you're not a 'safe' person. I could itch it for you, if you promise not to try escaping."

"I swear, if you don't let go RIGHT now," warned Sherlock, his tone spiking angrily as his temper shattered. "I'm going to _shoot_ you-"

At an aghast look from John, Sherlock cut himself off and wiped his expression clean. Awkwardly looking from his friend to the floor, Sherlock continued at a lower volume.

"...into space." he murmured. At that, Kinners beamed and gasped. Mad, she was.

"Sherlock, that's just as bad!" snapped John in an accusatory tone. "There isn't any air in space, she'd suffocate! Besides, how would you even get her up there?"

"I'm well aware, John," retorted Sherlock, the storm returning to his eyes. "While I may not know every insignificant detail about 'our' solar system, I do happen to know that space is a vacuum."

"...cleaner?" finished Kinners tentatively.

" _Shut up!_ " commanded Sherlock, squirming vainly against her death grip. As predicted, she didn't let go. She didn't bother tightening, however. Sherlock's arms were pinned to his sides as surely as if they were chained. He might as well have been attacked by a giant friendly bulldog.

"No, thanks," deflected Kinners nonchalantly. It was as if Sherlock was barely there. "I rather like my gob. It loves to go. Mycroft didn't like that about me, either, but mneh. What's his deal, am I right?"

"The gun, John," intoned Sherlock, shutting his eyes as if he could tune out Kinners' ramblings by doing so. "I don't care if you shoot her or me, just end this before my sanity erodes!"

"I'm not shooting either of you," said John firmly. The soldier's grimness in his eyes left no room for argument. "We can work this out without violence. Believe it or not, Sherlock, not everybody reacts positively to a gun. That's just you, and you're mad."

"Then _how do I make her let go?_ " demanded Sherlock. John opened his mouth, closed it again. Well, best to do what he did best, according to Sherlock: think like a normal person.

"Well, traditionally, you would hug them back." thought John out loud. The room was silent. Sherlock's face resembled the face he'd procured the day John asked him to be his best man.

"Do I look like a man of tradition to you, John?" inquired Sherlock slowly. Dangerously. Kinners looked slightly confused as well, which was refreshingly new.

"I don't think Sherlock is going to do that, John," said Kinners carefully, her eyes switching back and forth under connected brows. "Trust me, he is many things, and of all people you would know. But a man of tradition? Mycroft definitely, but Sherlock, not so much."

"If I hug you back, will you let me go?" asked Sherlock, grimacing as if it pained him to even think of resorting to such human affairs. Kinners looked even more confused.

"There's no telling what I'd do, really," she shrugged, looking up as if struggling to recall something. "But then again, you would never do anything remotely affectionate, except maybe for Molly, so why would I bother thinking of what I'd do if something impossible happened?"

Not a very useful answer. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and spread his hands out to the sides, as if to say, _Well?_

Sherlock spent uncountable moments hating himself for what he was about to do.

Slowly, haltingly, as if he didn't remember how to control his body, he pulled one arm free. Rather than use it as leverage to push away, he forcibly put it around her shoulders before he could question himself.

Kinners froze.

Sherlock did, too, but after a moment, he looked back down at her. Her face was expressionless, and her arms as rigid as ever. Sherlock tried patting her on the head. No reaction. She reminded him of a taxidermy display he'd once seen in Russia, except less artful.

"You lied to me, John." he muttered, almost too low for John to fully understand.

"Sorry?" he echoed, leaning forward to hear him better.

"She didn't let go." he reiterated bitterly, louder this time. "If anything, it's even worse! The only thing that did was shut her up. Progress nonetheless, but in case you haven't noticed, _she's still touching me._ "

"Sherlock, I...I think she's in shock," told John, not quite believing the words he was saying as they fell out of his mouth. But she wasn't moving, save for scant signs of life. One moment she was bursting with energy, the next completely stoic. What was with this girl?

"John, think about what you just said." said Sherlock with a dark undertone of sarcasm. John looked back up at him for a brief moment with a slight glare to remind his friend that he wasn't a complete idiot.

"I am thinking, Sherlock, but the signs are there!" John retorted, checking her pulse again. "See? Irregular heart rate, rapid shallow breathing, skin cold."

"What about weakness?" inquired Sherlock, struggling once more against her grip. She behaved as if she were in rigor mortis. "None of that, obviously. And the confusion?"

"I suppose the lack of motion could count," mused John, waving his hand in front of her face. Her pupils didn't budge, merely staring off into space as if nothing were there at all. "Knowing her, it would only make sense to assume that this kind of behavior is abnormal."

"I suppose it's a sound diagnosis," muttered Sherlock, obviously not altogether pleased with his result. "I surely won't doubt you. It doesn't matter though, the police should be here any moment now, and they can take her away to St. Bartholomew's...or the asylum."

John stopped and looked at Sherlock for a long moment to comprehend what he had just said.

" _You called the police?_ " echoed John in disbelief. Sherlock looked nonplussed, as if it was a perfectly logical course of action.

"On charges of assault. I almost said battery, but I figured that wouldn't be necessary because you have a gun and I knew you would get here first."

"Sherlock, she's hugging you! How is that assault?!"

"I don't want to be hugged! Same principle as sexual harassment, really."

"How can you even say that?"

"John, don't be so dramatic."

"You're the one being a drama queen! People don't call the police when they're being hugged to death!"

"A _ha!_ She's suffocating me! Woefully inefficient, but now with your witness it's possible that I could sue her for attempted second degree murder. Thank you, John."

"Nobody's suing or murdering anyone!"

Sherlock groaned and glared into his eyebrows at the antagonizingly familiar voice. Lestrade hiked up the stairs with badge in hand, inevitably flanked by Donovan and Andersen. Nobody bothered to move for a prolonged moment as the three officers processed the scene in front of them. Lestrade was the first soul to make a brave observation.

"The #*$ is this?"


	2. Not Even Andersen

I lifted my teacup to my lips slowly. Slooooooooowwwwwwwwlyyyyyyyy. The innocuous sip I took seemed very loud, so I put it down almost as fast as humanly possible which was probably not appropriate because it made a little splash and an even bigger noise. I put on my I'm-uncomfortable smile to deter people from looking at me.

"This is _not_ my division...," muttered Lestrade crossly, taking a more apropo sip of tea. Sitting across from him between John and Sherlock, I munched my crumpet with polite quietness. John's eyes were flashing back and forth between me and Sherlock nervously, as if he were expecting another incident. Sherlock was pointedly looking in the opposite direction of me, glaring at the wall as he fumed about whatever consulting detectives fume about. Lestrade had also resolved not to look at me, preferring to stare into the murky depths of his tea, while Donovan and Andersen were regarding me as if I were Freak #2.

So far, so good.

"So..," began Andersen, brows furrowed in confusion. Brave soul, that, if incorrigibly thick. "Are we supposed to...lock her up? I still don't understand."

"The back of the t-shirt!" I interjected in a valiant attempt to prove my knowledge and worth. I didn't succeed at that, but I did manage to get Sherlock to speak.

"Do not speak of Magnussen," he ordered icily, not moving otherwise. He spoke the dreaded name as if it were a vile swear. I shrank a few inches and resumed eating.

"How do you know that?" inquired John, turning to fix me with a look of befuddlement. I shrugged, for I honestly didn't know how to explain that without Sherlock spontaneously combusting.

"She's working for Mycroft," stated Sherlock with a tinge of disdain. Why do all these fantastic people hate me when they first meet me? "To what end, I do not know yet, but I can deduce just as easily. Mycroft wants information and she's here to get it from me. Lestrade, if you please." With that, he gestured to Lestrade and the handcuffs at his belt. Lestrade, however, had inhibitions of his own.

"Are you asking me to arrest a harmless adolescent on grounds of your long shot 'observation?'" he echoed.

"Did I stutter?" asked Sherlock dangerously. The look in his eye with which he attacked Lestrade was reminiscent of a harassed predator. I thought I could help, but realised too late that I was incapable of such a feat.

"Actually, you didn't really tell him to do anything at-" I only made it to ten words before Sherlock cut me off.

"While you are in my presence you will not speak unless spoken to," Sherlock commanded, eyebrows angry and eyes closed with the effort of maintaining his piqued anger. "Am I clear?"

"Your body is rather opaque, but I understand your meaning, if that is what you were intending to clarify." I responded without missing a beat.

"Lestrade," growled Sherlock. At this point, John attempted to smooth things over, which I appreciated because I was getting nowhere. I hated that feeling-usually only Loki could give me that.

"Sherlock, how do you know she's from Mycroft?" John asked, deftly changing the subject to something Sherlock had no problem talking about: his ego.

"It's the smell," he growled, inciting a reference I sadly did not understand. "The Diogenes Club has a very particular smell to it, one that I can recognize like my own thumbprint, unfortunately. The only Diogenes member that would send someone after me with this kind of audacity? Mycroft. Brotherly paranoia, thinly disguised as brotherly love."

"'Kay, but Mycroft's at least as clever as you, isn't he?" asked John, leaning forward to look over at Sherlock. The sociopath's jaw tightened.

"Barely." he clipped.

"Then why would he do this?" inquired John, watching with a hint of satisfaction as the computer behind his best friend's eyes ran a diagnostic. "You said she was sent because Mycroft wanted information, but about what?"

"Yeah, you haven't had a case for weeks!" interjected Lestrade, thrusting his chin at his consulting detective as if to win back some of the esteem he'd lost to him over the years. Like the hyaena she was Donovan couldn't resist getting a chunk for herself.

"We've been doing just fine without you," she stated boldly, puffing up her chest as if it were her inflatable attitude.

"Agent Sally Donovan, think very carefully about the nonsense you just spat into the world and then submit a second draft to me for revision." commanded Sherlock, closing his eyes for a moment and not using them to see her.

"Don't you call me that!" she retorted indignantly, eyes increasing in diameter and intensity. Lestrade continued throughout her eyerolling.

"What's that then for you, Mr. Holmes?" dared Lestrade, delving into the icy tomb of Sherlock's face like a looting invader, soon to be cursed. "Your own mate's got you on this one, explain-hey, where're you going?"

Beginning at around the second or third line of dialogue an amount of percussion had happened as to prick my ear, so to speak. I wasn't shifted at the time, thank goodness. Without anyone caring or noticing save Sherlock, I had managed to go a full minute without eating or saying anything. When I arose without moving my eyes John attributed me a curious glance, and as I gingerly stepped past him Lestrade's obvious question occurred. Having escaped from the couch I stood in a line with the window, cocking my head to the side like a dog at some new oddity of human behavior. As if in a moon-trance I walked towards it, my brain-secretary dutifully taking note of the getting-up noises behind me. I only stopped myself just in time from bumping my nose on the glass. I would have walked right out of that apartment and into the world if there hadn't been physical inconveniences to block my way. Completely missing the face reflected from over my shoulder I took it all in, someone's breath fogging on a crystalline surface somewhere in some silly man-made reality I had grown out of long ago.

"Look at that," I murmured, not caring if anyone was listening or who. "No, really, look. See. See the colors, how they get brighter even as the grey sky mutes them, how it dampens and reinvigorates the life in everything. Look-it's all so much greener. Redder. Yellower. You name it. Everything's alive, but physically it hasn't changed a bit. How does one reason with this world of ours, especially when it throws things like this at us? You see, this certain special one-of-a-kind thing, it's not something self-explanatory like science or magic. There's a feel, more than a scent but not a sensation perceptible by the mind alone, a very peculiar phenomenon that only comes once in a while and sometimes if we're very, very careful and we get it just right we can reach it in that distant haze of memory and…if we would only reach..."

Lost in the beauty of the world across the glass for a very long and quiet moment that couldn't have been enough of either. I was.

"It's _raining!_ " I shrieked, startling John behind me with my volume. "I _love_ rain. Is that weird? Of course it is, I _am_ weird. Not even Andersen could miss that, after that mumbo-jumbo. Wanna go run in it? Me, too!"

With that, I bolted out the door.

* * *

And thusly, without even my tattered grey hat, I ran in the rain.

I didn't bother shutting the door because I knew that Sherlock and John were hot on my heels, and eventually those other blokes. First thing I did was turn right and sprint, eyes searching the endless flats for an alley, a very particular alley. I simultaneously trained my ears on the footsteps that followed me, which for my level of focus was no cheap trick. They became louder on the pavement behind me, but I knew I was close to the right passage, I just had to go a little further-there! The nasty moldy one!

Sherlock's hand seized me.

" _No!_ " I snapped, tearing my arm from his grip and finding a fresh burst within me. I sprinted down my chosen hallway, following its winding course and not for a moment hesitating when it split in two. I raced down the left corridor, my pursuers' footsteps sounding much too close in the acoustic confines of the tunnel the alley had turned into. As my chest burned for want of air I roved my surroundings for anything to hide in or behind, although my mind knew that Sherlock would find me within moments of getting close enough. I promptly told it to shut up, as it was doing nothing for my morale, and ducked behind a barrel that looked and smelled like a homeless person had built a fire in it. I tried to quiet my breathing.

Rapid footfalls tore past; Sherlock, by the scent of him. My theory was proven right when they abruptly stopped-John was wonderful, but it was doubtful that he would have been able to notice that I had stopped running. Another pair was still resounding farther down the way I'd came, which more gradually slowed to a stop at about the point the first pair had. John.

"Why've we stopped?" inquired John between lungfuls of slightly rancid air. I carefully turned my eyes down and began searching with eyes and fingers.

"Because she has," replied Sherlock, his measured steps implying that he was turning around to make a sweep of the area. I tried to synchronize any noise I made with the tempo of his feet. "But why? Was it just fatigue, or is there a reason for this spot?"

"I'd say fatigue, and now she just doesn't want to face us," prognosticated John as I angrily discarded yet another useless piece of paper. I begged my lucky stars that he hadn't put it in the barrel.

" _Doesn't want to face us?_ John, she wouldn't even let go of me!" retorted Sherlock, his slightly indignant tone making me wince. "If she wanted to get away, she would have just kept going. Marching band, remember? She could have kept running, but she didn't, why?" Knowing that I only had seconds I sped up my search, no longer making an attempt to be silent. Now I was really backed into a closet.

Sherlock and John became quiet for a moment. I didn't.

I jumped half out of my skin and yelped like a dog whose tail had been stepped on, John's hands on my shoulders pulling me back and up as soon as they had alighted. Before my heart rate could even think of slowing down from the surprise he had me in a lock, my head and right arm restrained by a practiced military grip. Sherlock stood in front of me, slightly backlit by the sunny entrance but still recogniseable. He was still for the few moments that I struggled, enjoying the vanity of my attempt. When I stopped I was probably glaring at him.

"How's it feel?" he asked spitefully, narrowing his eyes and lifting his chin slightly at me. I just raised my eyebrows.

"Pretty nice, actually," I replied coolly, not altogether untruthfully. "That probably sounds weird, John, sorry. But I'm certainly not going to sue you. In fact, I won't even have you arrested. I'm an angel."

"I appreciate that, thanks," muttered John behind me, my nose twitching slightly at the sarcasm. Thank goodness I can still detect it, I thought Mycroft had completely overloaded my sense of sarcasm! Sherlock moved towards me with the handcuffs pickpocketed from Lestrade, to which John turned me around and gave him my wrists. Outwardly heaved a growl-sigh. Inwardly I smirked, the note safe inside my back right pocket.


	3. Big Girl Now

Needless to say, I was promptly shipped off to a holding room at Scotland Yard. I can't even remember what kind of charges Sherlock made up to get me incarcerated, but I do know that they were ridiculous and they probably included the kind of charges he'd made up when caught in my death grip. Deucedly clever Holmeses, why can't they be kind, too?

I was alone for a time, but perhaps not for quite as long as Sherlock thought I was. I passed half an hour composing songs in my head and the other half fuming about the insufferable clever people I insisted on surrounding myself with, and I had scarcely finished writing the bassline for a hot swing groove when my much-missed comrade appeared.

"Loki!" I burst, my face cracking into another of my signature grins. As he slipped through the door I closed the distance between us in a single stride and, you guessed it, hugged him.

"Has it been that long?" he asked in a choked voice. I only let go because I'd already used most of my daily allotted hug-power on Sherlock. I beamed up at his glowing green eyes, his familiar wolf scent rising my spirits. Despite my misgivings, it was actually rather cool to have another werewolf around, even if I felt the guilt of biting him whenever I caught sight, sound or scent of him.

"I trust you got the message?" he asked briskly, to which I nodded vigorously. Then his face twisted. "Then you must know how I feel about it all."

"Ah, c'mon!" I jested, quelling my own misgivings under a laugh and a mild punch in the shoulder for Loki. "I'm a big girl, now, I can take care of myself!"

"Big enough to get arrested, I see," he observed coolly, to which I rolled my eyes at the white-gray walls around me. "I trust your 'investigations' went well with those Home folks?"

" _Holmes_ ," I corrected, eyes narrowing at him. "And yes, actually, I learned quite a bit from the first one. I didn't get quite so far with the younger, but that's my own fault."

"Of course it is," he muttered. "Well, what did Mycroft say? That is the elder's name, isn't it?"

"Yes, he told me-" When he looked up at the door with a feeling in his eyes like a startled animal I presumed it was a good idea to shut up. He disappeared, the door opened.

"You forgot this."

As Sherlock stepped inside he tossed me my gray fedora, which I caught in midair. I threw him a quizzical and somewhat distrusting look, simultaneously scanning the room for Loki in case he would appear to me at least. I didn't know what to expect quite yet, which was good and bad. I didn't have a prejudice, but I also didn't have a clue.

Well, in that case, nothing had really changed.

"Why've you come back for me?" I asked carefully.

"For you?" he echoed in mock surprise, his face unchanging but his voice theatric as he paced around me. I sighed inside at my crushed hope. "You must think me dreadfully noble, if you imagine I've come for _you_."

"Then what've you come for?" I asked testily, one eyebrow rising. He was prompt in his reply.

"The note."

I was still and silent, waiting for him to make the next move. Looking him in the eye was like trying to read a language of untold antediluvity. What was it saying? How could I possibly learn?

"I know you have it." he tried again. Maybe I could get him on the rocks if I pretended I had him there already.

"Don't you know what it says then, cleverclogs?" I purred, allowing myself a shadow of a grin. I noticed a slight stiffening, and for a long time he was silent. Perhaps this whole deductions thing wasn't so tough after all.

"No." he admitted.

"I presume you want to?" I clarified.

"A correct presumption." he replied. He was becoming stonier, possibly-no, probably-because his emotion, whatever it was, was becoming a liability. It was my turn to pause now, considering my options.

"What if I tell you it's none of your business?"

"No matter. I'd simply find another way to get it out of you." he replied nonchalantly. Not nonchalantly enough, I'm afraid.

"And if I tell you what it says?"

"Good girl. I may even let you out of this place." he offered breezily. His voice was somewhat lacking in wind.

"May I ask you a question, Mr. Holmes?"

"You've been doing nothing but." he replied acidically.

"Whyever do you want to know?"

He was very silent for very long, this time. I was trying so hard to read that occult language written in his cliff face, so hard that I rather forgot how important everything was. What was happening behind his eyes, what computations were occurring in the clockwork palace of his mind? How much did he know, truly?

How could I possibly lie to him?

"What if I tell you it's none of your business?"

Agh, you blasted Vulcan!

"All right, I'm done," I growled with frustration, sighing and turning to the wall.

"Ohh, really?" he asked, forging disappointment in his voice. "But we were having such fun-"

"I said I'm done!" I snapped again, whirling around with a fury that even raised his eyebrows. "Enough with the dancing around each others' questions, with the pointless mind games that I'll never win! I want to know exactly what you know, and the only way I can do that is to tell you the whole truth."

"But?" he prompted, tilting his head.

"But if I do, you're going to want in on it," I continued for him, beginning to pace in my frustration. "And that's going to completely ruin everything, or so Reindeer Games keeps telling me, despite the undeniable fact that you're not only one of the smartest blokes on this good Earth but someone who knows him, or at least more than I do. And y'know what, I guess he's right, because there's not a chance that you would believe anything I tell you! You don't even trust me, do you? You all just think I'm mad, and you know you're no exception!"

At this point Sherlock was probably confused because I was referring to Loki at this last bit. He hadn't exactly revealed himself, but I knew he was still here.

"What, am I scaring you?" I demanded to thin air, glaring into the indefinite space of wherever-he-was. "You know I'm right, you blasted god!"

When no response came I began to consider the possibility that he was not, in fact, here.

"Loki?"

Slowly turning red in the cheeks, I checked Sherlock's expression. It would have made me laugh at whatever poor soul he was turning that face to, if that soul hadn't been me. By this time I was as red as a beet, and approximately as intelligent.

"Jim Moriarty knows who stole the Tesseract because it's not Loki so I have to get him to tell me who did it so I can find him and clear Loki's name so I'm going to meet him."

Somewhere in the great, big universe I heard Loki's palm connect with his forehead.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home!"

One quasi-legal bail and one awkward cab ride later, I was back in Sherlock's flat, nose practically folding back into itself at the stale drug odors. As if by a magic summons Mrs. Hudson appeared, looking adorable but concerned.

"Sherlock, I thought you…?" she began, allowing me to shake her hand and smile radiantly at her as if she were in a stupor.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson, her rent will be covered in full by me." assured Sherlock, depositing his coat on his chair in front of the fireplace. The face she gave him made me think of an indignant nun.

"Sherlock, it's not proper!"

"Of course, it's much less proper than her very own cell in Scotland Yard," he retorted, pausing to flash a surprisingly venomous look at his landlady. He was in a bit of a mood. No, I do not know anything. "Really, Mrs. Hudson, your inhospitality appalls me. You may have the upstairs bedroom, if you so desire, Kinners."

"Ooh, yay!" I enthused, springing up the stairs on all fours just like I would at-

"On one condition."

I paused mid-step and fixed my greenish eyes on him. His face was a thunderstorm; I suppose that's my effect on fantastic people.

"You will disclose to me every detail of your rendezvous with James Moriarty, in full and without perjury, every last insignificant fact."

"Now?" I asked. He turned his eyes to the sunset hidden behind the blinds. He seemed to grow old for half a tick, and maybe even...

"In due time," he sighed, waving me off. "Go."

I returned to my climb, already up into the room by the time he decided he had more to say to me.

"In addition you will not inquire after my own actions or intentions, be they based on your intelligence or my own logic. Are we-...at an understanding?"

"You got it, Mr. Holmes!" I replied happily, sticking my head back down the stairs at his stone countenance again. I snickered at his almost-repeated mistake of asking after his own clarity.

"You may call me what you wish," he muttered half to himself. Midstride I froze, wondering if I had heard what I thought I had. I heard fabric rustle against him as he moved away. I had to act.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

He stopped in his tracks, as if he could feel my eyes on the back of his curly head. I decided to leave the great man be.

I shut the door behind me and opened the window for some fresh air and dying sunlight.


End file.
